


WIP: Anders

by sharpwhitestars



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharpwhitestars/pseuds/sharpwhitestars
Summary: Replaying Dragon Age II, and I am have fallen in love once again with Anders and his love for Hawke. Here is a WIP in which I try to express Hawke's devotion and how there is plenty left of Anders if you strip Justice and his hatred of the Templars away.
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Kudos: 4





	WIP: Anders

**Author's Note:**

> WIP. Hope to revisit and develop as the mood takes me.

He smiles, seizes me by the arm, and pulls me into the throng of a crowd as templars move in, drawn by the flicker of magic lingering in the square. His magic.

We fall into a smooth run, moving with practised grace between bickering nobles, pick-pocketing urchins and the street performers fluttering their red scarves in mock surprise.

He often catches me up in this way, with a wicked smile accompanied with the softness of his honey eyes. How many times has he risked his freedom with a twist of fire, a crackle of lightning, or, his specialty, a tingling warmth felt by all nearby from the power of his healing words? And how many times has he done it to pluck a laugh from me, to set my blood pounding and to trap me between so much joy and so much terror that I feel as though I might lose myself altogether?

He says that’s the closest I will ever feel to his life with Justice.

Maker, I would kill him, how I would kill him if he ever got himself caught. Not that the Circle, even one such as the Gallows, could hold him long. His skill at escape, his knowledge of every collapsed tunnel, every alley, every sewer in Kirkwall earns him more freedom from the templar's watchful gaze than he has ever seemed to realise.

His hand firm around my arm. The back of his blonde head bobbing ahead of me, leaving his scent of balm and fire and the crispness of snow in the air as a path for me to follow.

We hide, where we almost always do, within the walls of the Chantry, within the arms of each other, in the quiet places where people pray. We pray, using our bodies as palms and his kisses are the Words of the Maker.

Sometimes, Justice is so hot in him, all I can do is hold onto him. I wrap him in my broad arms, press my cheek against his head and murmur and rock and soothe, as Justice burns blue scars across his beautiful skin. 

One day, he says, he will not win. One day, all that I will hold in my arms will be an abomination.

“I will come and find you,” I vow to him, every time the fight is won, after he has slept the exhaustion away. “The Fade holds no fear for me.”

He smiles then, a smile to match his eyes, and touches my face with his powerfully gentle fingers.

“Oh Hawke,” he says. “And how would you reach me in the Fade? Your sword is useless against that Veil, the Veil between worlds.”

“You have not seen how hard I can swing,” I murmur into his hair and it is my turn to catch him. 

*

He opens my mouth and moans into it, clasping my head with his slender hands. He is all fire and urgency, pulling at me, pressing me close to him, wrapping his legs around my own.

I fumble at the lacing of his shirt and break away from his mouth to kiss his neck, his collarbone, the part of his chest I can get to.

He mutters in irritation and releases me, seizing his shirt and tearing it open.

“You’re ridiculous,” I laugh, sitting back as he wriggles one arm free.

“How do you expect me to be anything else?” he asks and cups my face in his hands, kissing my mouth, my jaw then biting my earlobe. “You can’t expect me to wait forever.”

It is like this every time. His desire seems unending. Nights with him lead to days curled in each other’s arms in which I am exhausted but he never seems to be quite satisfied. I regularly drift in and out of sleep to his kisses and caresses and it is long after the sun has set once more that I wake to him cast over me, still and deeply asleep at last. 

It is then, sometimes, as I kiss and cradle his head heavy on my chest, that Justice will make an appearance. It starts with his shoulders, a shudder, a twitch, and then it is blue light instead of honey-brown eyes looking up at me and it is a voice too deep and too rattling to have any right to emerge from my lover’s throat that speaks to me.


End file.
